Free The God's Eye View by Barry Eisler Page A

said something to the others. Manus couldn’t make it out and figured it was Turkish. They all started laughing.
    Manus stripped the duct tape away. “Please,” Hamilton said. “Please tell me where we’re going. Tell me what’s happening.”
    Manus reached into the trunk and took out a water. He uncapped it with his teeth and held the bottle until Hamilton had drained it.
    One of the men was saying something in Turkish, pointing through the window at the SIG. The tall man came over and looked. “Yes, what is that on your steering wheel?” he said.
    A slight breeze picked up and carried the men’s scent to him—sweat and tobacco and garlic. Manus wrinkled his nose and tossed the empty bottle in the trunk. “A tool,” he said. There was a moment of tension, and then the tall man laughed. The other two laughed also.
    Manus smelled shit. He said, “You need to change his diaper.”
    The laughter stopped. The tall man said, “What’s wrong with your voice? You talk funny.”
    Manus said, “You need to change his diaper.”
    The tall man said, “You don’t tell me what to do.”
    Manus looked at Hamilton. “Please,” Hamilton was saying, and Manus realized he’d been saying it all along. “Who are you? Who are these people? What the fuck is happening?”
    Manus looked at the Turks. He didn’t like them. It would have been easy to kill them. But that wasn’t what the director wanted.
    He pulled Hamilton roughly around to the trunk, set the Berserker down inside it, and, keeping the Turks in view, bent Hamilton over and changed the idiot’s diaper. Manus didn’t like the way the Turks watched. Their expressions reminded him of what had happened in the juvenile prison.
    “I don’t know where you’re going,” Manus said when he was finished. “My job was to deliver you.”
    Hamilton’s eyes were wide, desperate. “Look, you’re American, right? Don’t leave me with these guys. Please!”
    Manus didn’t know why he’d said anything. What had been the point? He picked up the Berserker and walked Hamilton to the three men. One of the Turks yanked him over by the arm.
    “We are done, yes?” the tall one said.
    Hamilton looked back at Manus. “Please!” he said again, and Manus realized he should have retaped his mouth.
    The Turks laughed. One of them swatted Hamilton on the ass and squeezed. The other swiveled and shot an uppercut into Hamilton’s liver. Hamilton cried out and crumpled to the ground, moaning and writhing.
    The tall one smiled at Manus. “Are you worried we won’t take good care of him?”
    Manus said nothing. He could have taken the man’s head off with the Berserker. And dropped the other two with the Force Pro before the blood had finished jetting from the stump. But the director didn’t want that.
    The tall one barked a command in Turkish. One of the others answered, then helped Hamilton to his feet. His sweat had mixed with the dust he had rolled in and it looked like he was covered in mud. The Turks didn’t seem to mind. They were eyeing Hamilton up and down. One of them said something. Manus didn’t know the words, but he knew what they meant.
    “What did he say?” Manus asked, his voice once again surprising him. It didn’t matter what the man had said, so why had he asked?
    “He says you have underpaid us,” the tall one said, looking at Manus. “He says this is not the money we agreed upon.”
    Manus shifted the Berserker to his left hand and placed his right on his hip, inches from the butt of the Force Pro. He realized he was glad the conversation had taken this turn. He also realized he shouldn’t be. It wasn’t what the director wanted.
    “I gave you what I was told to give you,” he said.
    The tall man shook his head. “It isn’t enough.”
    “You mean you’ve changed your mind?”
    A long moment ticked by. The three Turks were tense. Manus knew they were on the verge of going for weapons. He felt his lips stretching into a grin at the prospect,